Mobsters With Unicorns Die
by KolKolKol
Summary: America/England yaoi! Random crack at the end, all that jazz. Rated for a reason!


**A/N: Title will make sense later. Mainly random America/England smex, then random crack drabbles at end.**

**Warnings: Rather detailed yaoi.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia, Japan and Switzerland would be shirtless a LOT more often.**

**Mobsters With Unicorns Die**

World conferences suck. That was the conclusion England had come to after sitting through four hours of pure hell. The room was overheated and the air conditioning didn't work; America had tried tossing a plastic figure of a robot into the vent, but -surprisingly- it wasn't effective; France didn't seem to be able to stop groping him; and to top it all off, they had to spend ten extra minutes convincing Switzerland not to murder Hungary, who had accidentally shown Liechtenstein some of her yaoi pictures on her digital camera. Switzerland didn't seem to be convinced it was an accident, Austria had tried and failed to contribute, and Liechtenstein had finally been able to make her brother put the gun away by saying she didn't even know what it was. Either way, the entire thing had been a waste of England's time. All he wanted was to go home and drink tea and do nothing for a while.

When he had gone a few more steps, England could hear someone yelling to him. He tried to ignore it; he knew that voice. Maybe if he kept walking and didn't respond it would go away.

"England!" Nope. Dammit.

"Hey, England!" America called again, running up to him. England reluctantly turned around and faced the smiling American.

"What, America?" England asked tiredly.

"Hey, England...Wanna go out with me?" America asked, smiling cockily.

"Uh..." England's mouth opened, but nothing resembling words came out. "What?" he finally managed.

"Do you want to go out with me?" America repeated.

"Like a ... date?"

"That's usually what 'go out with' means," America said. Disheartened, the smile left, and blue eyes cast downward in embarrassment and rejection. For a moment, England saw the little boy he had raised, upset and atrabilious. His immediate response was to make it better.

"Uh, sure, I guess," he said, and America was beaming again, eyes sparkling.

"Great! Come on!" he said, grabbing England's hand and towing him down the street.

"Wha-?" England was confused. "Now?"

"Yeah, why not?" America said, shrugging happily. "What do you wanna do?"

"Uh..." This seemed to be England's word of the day. He felt like putting his head through a wall.

"How about the movies?" America suggested, seeing England's loss for words.

"Uh, sure..." England let America drag him off again.

"What do you want to see? There's some really great horror movies out, you know," America commented. "They're really scary."

"Yeah, sure," England muttered, still completely confused about why in the hell America wanted to date him. They had always had a tenuous relationship, which had only gotten worse after America's revolution. While he was pondering this, mainly staring at his shoes, America had bought tickets and pulled England into the theater.

"Wait'll you see this!" America said, nudging England as they sat down. "Last time I saw this, I nearly pissed myself!"

"Uh, good?" England guessed, this time wondering why America would volunteer that information.

"Yeah, that's a mark of a great horror movie!" America said, quieting when the movie started.

America was only half right: the movie was sort of scary. England watched, almost uninterested. But the movie apparently scared America very much; he had buried his head in England's arm in the first ten minutes. England grinned slightly, amused by the American's intolerance for scary movies. Even badly-made scary movies. By the end of the movie, America was practically in his lap.

"America," England said, prodding his arm as the lights turned on and everyone began filing out. "America, the movie's over. Come on, America, get off of me." America opened his eyes and looked around, noticing that almost everyone had vacated the theater.

"That was a great movie!" he said to England, who was utterly confused by how he could say that.

"You didn't look at it for more than thirty seconds at a time," England said.

"Yeah, but every thirty seconds I saw was awesome!" America said. "And anyway, you know, I only did that so you wouldn't feel bad if you were scared." England opened his mouth to protest, but he was suddenly rendered incapable of speaking. The American had leaned over the armrest of his seat and was kissing him with an out-of-character determination. England was rather surprised - not to mention freaked out - but he didn't pull away for some reason. He just closed his eyes and let America do what he wanted.

When America drew back, he looked sort of flustered. "Er, I'm sorry," he mumbled, glancing around, embarrassed. England managed to catch his gaze and held it. America's blue eyes held a hint of, 'may we continue this somewhere else...?'.

"Come on, America," England said, standing up. "Let's go." America nodded and followed England out of the theater. Neither spoke all the way to England's house, walking in awkward silence. Both were relieved when they reached England's door.

"England, I..." America said, trailing off oddly. England shook his head.

"It's all right, America," he said. America nodded once and looked up at England's green eyes. He leaned forward hesitantly, pausing when he was a few inches from England's face. England blinked, tilting his head toward America's until their lips touched again. America grabbed England by the shoulders and pressed him into the door, running his tongue along England's bottom lip. England opened his mouth slightly, letting America kiss him more deeply. That was about the time he realized what the hell he was doing. Kissing America, the boy he had raised since childhood. In his house.

Shoving America away from him, he rested his weight against the wall. "W-What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he spluttered.

America shrugged and grinned cockily again. "Kissing you, you moron."

"Well, don't! I-I'm not like that, I don't like you," England said, glancing down.

"Oh really?" America asked, arching an eyebrow. "If you don't like me, what happens when I do this?" America stepped forward and kissed England again heatedly. Against his will, England let out an odd noise. It was supposed to be a sentence, something along the lines of 'Get the hell off me you fucking moron', but it came out as a suspiciously sexual moan.

"See?" America whispered. "You do like me," he said, kissing England harder.

"Screw you," England muttered. But he was enjoying the kiss, not that he'd ever admit it to America. Hell, he'd never admit it to anyone.

"I'd be happy to," the taller nation said enthusiastically. He bent his head and poked England's mouth open with his tongue, smiling when England did nothing to stop him.

"T-that's not what I meant, you idiot," England said, pressing farther back into the wall for support. America slid one hand behind around to the doorknob and let them into the house. America pushed England through the doorway, kissing him roughly. America's hands stroked England's chest through his stiff military uniform, realizing that he had no idea where England's bedroom was. He pulled back from their kiss, looking into England's hazy green eyes, smirking in slight embarrassment.

Rolling his eyes, England pointed with an overly-dramatic flourish. America pulled him back into their kiss and began walking them down the hallway, nearly tripping over the threshold of England's bedroom. He sat down on the edge of his bed, pulling England into his lap. England had long since given up, and let America do whatever he wanted. Which was, apparently, picking him up and throwing him on the bed.

"What he hell?" England asked, outraged.

"How else was I supposed to get you here?" America asked. Straddling him, he cupped his hands around England's face, tilting it upward and pushing his tongue into England's mouth. England slid one hand down America's torso, letting it snake up his shirt and rest against America's cool skin. America groaned and pressed his body into England's, laughing slightly at the profanity the man shot at him. Twisting his fingers in America's hair, England began turning red, mostly because he was embarrassed at what America was doing with him.

Meanwhile, America pulled back again and was gazing at England. "You're cute when you blush," he commented. This, of course, made England flush deeper.

"Shut up, idiot," he muttered. He resumed their kiss and America grinned at England's awkwardness. He began trying to take off England's jacket, but failed for a moment. He couldn't seem to get the few buttons undone, which was probably due to the fact that his hands were shaking. The American finally popped the buttons open and instantly took off the outer jacket, only to find another shirt underneath it, with more buttons.

"You need to dress simpler," America murmured against England's lips, fiddling with the shirt. England didn't respond, but he did start kissing America harder. "You're not exactly helping," America said, working on the buttons halfway down England's shirt. "Hah, got it," he finally muttered, stripping England of his shirt and moving to kiss his chest. England moaned, taking hold of America's omnipresent bomber jacket and tossed it away, surprised to see what was under it.

"There was a World Conference today," England said.

"Yeah, and?" America asked, licking up England's neck.

"And you're wearing a T-shirt. That's why you wouldn't take off the bloody jacket, even though it was a hundred degrees in that conference room."

America smirked. "Why should I wear a suit to a pointless conference where nothing gets done?" He seductively licked England's ear and was rewarded with a shuddering gasp. Grinning, the American trailed a line of soft kisses back down to England's lips, pausing a few inches away.

"Because-" England's answer was cut off by America's kiss, lips moving alluringly against his. Despite the kiss, England still tried to defend his answer, mumbling a muffled something about etiquette.

"Because my way," America said, "is much more convenient." England decided to take advantage of that fact by pulling America's shirt over his head, groaning when America's skin met his.

"America, you're crushing my vital regions," he complained as America fingered the waist of England's pants. For some reason, England realized that America was wearing jeans. America sighed in frustration with England's pants.

"Dammit," he said. "Why the hell do you wear these?"

"Watch your language," England said automatically.

"If you would then I would," America whispered, nipping at England's neck slowly.

"Bloody wanker," England muttered. America shook his head, grinning as he managed to unzip England's pants. But before he could take them off, England had grabbed his wrists and stopped him, eyes glinting. England began working on America's jeans, mentally reminding himself to teach America about proper attire for business meetings later, after...whatever the hell this was.

America shivered as England took off his jeans and began stroking his thighs. He caught England in a deep kiss and slid his pants off. England didn't stop him this time, kissing back eagerly. America quickly removed their last scanty pieces of clothing and moaned loudly at the feel of England's hot skin on his.

America pushed himself down to England's hips, nipping and sucking at the skin until England swore again. Laughing, America took England's member into his mouth and began running his tongue over it. England fisted his hands in America's hair, arching his back. America bobbed his head slowly, teasingly. England called out another four-letter vulgarity after a moment, signaling America that it was time for a change in pace. So America began humming the Star Spangled Banner loudly against England's erection. England groaned quite audibly and tried to pull America closer. America refused, but kept humming, maybe a tad bit louder. He chuckled as he slowly withdrew England's member from his mouth.

"You know you're a dirty old slut, right Eyebrows?" he asked, using his old pet-name for England.

"Then what are you for doing it to me?" England retorted, looking down at America.

"Whatever I am, it isn't whatever you're thinking." America inspected the aroused look in England's eyes. "Scratch that, it definitely isn't whatever you're thinking." America began to push himself into England, laughing at England's blush and strained groan. America held still for the longest time, waiting until England gave him the word to really begin. But it never came, and America started getting impatient. He opened his eyes and saw England beneath him, pink in the face, but grinning devilishly.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" America asked, pouting like a little kid.

"Of course I did, you little brat," England said. "You need to learn the meaning of patience."

"You suck," America said. "Screw that." And with those words he began rocking back and forth into and out of England. He only took it slow for the first few thrusts, then began speeding up and pounding into the other nation.

"Take it slower, America," England said, bucking his hips.

"Why?" America's tongue explored England's mouth, and he was panting with exertion.

England murmured something around America's lips, but the younger nation was unable to discern what it was. He shrugged and kept going at his desperate pace. America began going even faster, inducing moans from both men.

"What did I just say?" England asked, panting.

"I've got no idea," America whispered, deliberately throwing England's words into his face, showing that he didn't care what he thought. England's hands went to America's neck, pulling his head closer.

"Why the hell can't you listen to me?" England gasped out, panting faster from America's hurried thrusts.

"I can. I just...choose not to." America smiled and leaned down to nip at England's neck. England groaned, half in pleasure, half in annoyance. America took it as a good sign and continued toying with England's neck, running his tongue along it and giving it a few nips every so often. England was now keeping a constant moan in the back of his throat, bucking his hips roughly in time to America's. America slammed his eyes shut as he felt England start to move faster. He grabbed England's erection and began pumping it harshly, England's sharp gasp pushing him closer to the edge.

"Ahhh...ngh, Arthur," America groaned between heavy breaths. Vivid colors flashed in England's eyes as he came into America's hand, crying out America's name. Hearing his name called in such an erotic manner was America's undoing; he failed to bite back a loud moan as he spilled himself into England.

Panting hard, America pulled out and promptly collapsed beside England, who was breathing just as heavily as America. Both were quite content to just lie there for a few minutes, catching their breath. After a few minutes, America propped himself up on one arm to look at England.

"Arthur?" he asked, waiting until England met his gaze to continue. "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did," England pointed out. America fake scowled and mussed England's hair roughly in admonishment.

"Then can I ask you another question?" he amended. England looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Go ahead," he decided.

"Why do you keep looking over there?" America asked, nodding his head towards the closet. England made a point of not moving his gaze from America when he answered.

"I don't. What makes you say that?"

"Because you keep looking over there and making weird faces, moving your lips like you're whispering, and jerking your head a little bit," America pointed out. England grimaced.

"Er, no I don't," England said evasively. "You're imagining things."

"You're lying," America said simply. "You never were a good liar - or storyteller either."

"What the bloody hell brought that up again?" England wondered. He really would rather forget that particular memory from America's childhood.

"I dunno. Remember, though?" America asked with a smile. "That night way back when?"

"Of course I remember," England said. "There was a huge storm and you got frightened out of your mind-"

"I wasn't scared! I wouldn't leave your side because I was protecting you!" America defended.

"Sure, keep telling yourself that, brat," England said. "Anyhow, you wouldn't leave me alone and then you told me you wouldn't sleep until I told you a story."

"And you made up this weird-ass story about some random mobster guy who later became a pirate and had an army of magical fairies and rainbow unicorns," America said, unable to contain his laughter.

"That was the most frustrating night of my life," England said. "I had good reason to end it like I did."

"That was so not an age-appropriate ending!" America claimed. "When I pestered you for the ending, all you did was scowl at me with those caterpillar-eyebrows and say, 'They died'. Then you fell asleep!"

"I was tired!" England said. "And there's nothing wrong with my eyebrows, thank you very bleeding much! Now, what the hell does that have to do with whatever question you asked?"

"It didn't; I just remembered it for some reason. Anyhow, back to me question: What's so fascinating over by the closet?" America asked again. "And 'nothing' isn't a good response."

"It's hard to explain," England said. "You'll think I'm crazy."

"Aw, c'mon, Eyebrows! I won't laugh or anything," America said. "Just tell me."

England sighed and reached over to the bedside table, retrieving a paper and pencil. Finding a large book to prop it on, he began to sketch on the paper easily; a picture was supposed to be worth a thousand words, right?

"What...is...that?" America asked a few minutes later, looking at England's finished drawing.

"I call the unicorn Dave," England said, like it was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Dave has a rape-face," America claimed. He would have laughed but he was too creeped out; England's paper consisted of a creepy unicorn with bulging eyes, buck teeth, and a striped coat. In the empty spots were little fairies in shaded dresses. Some of them were flipping America off, and others were sitting on Dave's back.

"As I recall, you're not the best artist either," England shot back. It was true; not only did America share his taste in food, but they were both rather poor artists.

"Here, give me the pencil," America ordered. England tossed it to him.

"Let's see you do better." America rose to the challenge and began scribbling something in the corner.

"Done," he said a minute later. Handing the paper to England, he beamed with pride in his drawing.

"America, that's a robot. Again." England sighed. "Can't you draw anything else?"

"No," America said. "I like drawing robots."

"America?"

"Yeah England?"

"You're an idiot."

**A/N: Told you. Thanks for putting up with my random one-shot stuff! I know I'm not that great at writing the smex, but it's the best I can do, and I'm working on it. **

**Yeah, England sucks at storytelling. I only thought it fitting. Though why I included it in here is a mystery.**

**Reviews keep Dave from dying!  
**


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